Tick, Tock
by Miss Raynie
Summary: Something is taken from Sherlock, and time is quickly running out. Rated T for later content.
1. Chapter 1

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

6:52 AM.

Sherlock lounged in his chair in 221 B, his hand bouncing up and down. It was the only part of him betraying his impatience.

Tick, tock.

6:54 AM.

Time was passing slowly. It had been two days, seven hours, and forty-three minutes since the consulting detective's last interesting case. There had been plenty of queries on his website, but those were boring, hardly-challenging problems that would not occupy his time properly.

With a huff, the man stood up. He swept over to the desk against the wall, where John had left his laptop. Opening it, he wiped the keyboard and waiting for the machine to start up.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

6:57 AM.

Where was John? Sherlock realized he had not seen nor heard the army doctor since just before dinner time the night before. When John left, Sherlock assumed it was for a date. His most recent emails and the details of John's clothing suggested a night in with whichever girl it was this time around.

The computer's desktop came up, and Sherlock was quickly on his website. Nothing new except for a couple of comments on the newest upload. His email was next, and, annoyingly, John had left his account logged-in.

Once on his own account, Sherlock checked each of the new emails. Missing cat, suspicion of an affair, debt collector, boring, every one. Eventually, he closed the laptop and leaned back.

Tick, tock.

7:05 AM.

Maybe Lestrade had a case. Jumping from the chair, the tall man scrambled about, searching for his mobile. His dark curls bounced slightly with the sudden movement. His mobile was not in the living room, not even in between cushions on the sofa. He next looked in the kitchen. The table was a mess, but he knew, in a glance, it was not there.

Now where did I leave it? he thought angrily.

Then Sherlock remembered; he had tossed it, in his excitement, towards a table in the living room, but had missed, as the item was not there when he looked. On his hands and knees, he found it on the floor, buried beneath a stack of papers. He breathed a sigh of relief and checked the screen.

6 New Messages.

With a smirk, Sherlock began scrolling through them. Two were from John, reminding him to check something, while the other four. . .

His heart stopped.

Are you missing me, Sherlock? –JM

You're certainly missing something. –JM

You're ignoring me. That's no fun. –JM

One hour to guess. I'm getting bored. –JM

The time on the last text was 6:30 AM. Sherlock glanced at the current time: 7:21 AM. Immediately, his dark brows furrowed. He had not noticed any misplaced items while walking through the flat, but just to be safe, he investigated each room once more.

This is Moriarty, he reminded himself. What would he think is important to me?

Suddenly, Sherlock looked up with a soft, "Oh!" He quickly sent a message to John, glancing once more at the time. 7:26.

How was last night? –SH

It was a weird message to come from the consulting detective, but one John was sure to answer. If he was able to. . .

A reply! Sherlock checked the time again; it was becoming a nervous tick of his. 7:30 AM.

Silly, you don't get replies from something lost. And I'm tired of waiting for you. –JM

Where could I collect my belongings? –SH

Oh, he's yours now? That isn't fair. –JM

He'll soon be mine. Or dead. I'm not picky. –JM

I don't like when people take my stuff. I need him home. Undamaged. –SH

No reply came.

I will come alone. –SH

Of course you will. You're always alone, Sherlock. –JM

This did not infuriate Sherlock as much as Moriarty had probably meant it to; rather, it made him realize that a clue had already been given. Standing in front of the tall window in the living room, Sherlock thought through each word in Moriarty's texts.

"Something lost," he muttered. "Or dead."

Eyes closed, he searched through his powerful mind, linking words in ways that made sense but were also nonsensical, making connections until it clicked.

It was a vague idea, but the only option that was clear. With a whirl of his coat, the man left the apartment, racing down the stairs and bursting out of the door. Once outside, he hailed a taxi.

"St. Bart's," he ordered the instant the door was shut.


	2. Chapter 2

Arriving at St. Bart's, Sherlock Holmes stepped from the taxi onto the sidewalk. In his rush, he nearly forgot to close the door. The man moved quickly, causing his long coat to billow about his tall figure. He flipped up the collar against the wind as he crossed the pavement, sparing a momentary glance down the street before entering the hospital.

The lobby was busy for a Thursday morning, especially since it was not yet eight. No doubt they had been waiting most of the night. Sherlock strode right by all of them, bursting into a stairwell and beginning to descend. The elevator was impractical; it was not reliable, and took much too long.

As he went, the consulting detective's mind worked furiously. What could have brought Moriarty out of hiding? Surely he was not bored enough to risk his position. Perhaps, because he had contacted Sherlock, the consulting criminal assumed he was safe. A rare smile played on Sherlock's lips.

He came to the floor he had been headed towards. Entering the smaller lobby, Sherlock was slightly surprised to find a family huddled together and crying, a somewhat-uncomfortable Molly Hooper standing next to them. She looked up, and a wave of relief washed over her face. Pardoning herself, she crossed the tiled floor before coming to a stop, exactly one foot from Sherlock. She opened her mouth to explain, but was cut off.

"I need in to the morgue," the man stated in a monotone.

"O-of course," Molly agreed, only a hint of confusion in her eyes. It was not a strange request; Sherlock often came to use the lab, and even to look around or use the morgue. But he usually only came when there was a really good case, which she knew there was not. Lestrade always called her first.

"I'll give you a minute," she called to the little family on the chairs. None responded, and, with a faint hum, she turned to lead Sherlock through the double doors and down the hallway.

The pathologist was slightly twitchy. She did not know what Sherlock was doing there, and her imagination was running away with her hopes. By the time they reached the door, Molly was suppressing a blush. As usual, however, Sherlock took no notice.

"Thank you," he said as he slipped in the door. Molly hesitated a brief moment before following him.

When she entered, she saw Sherlock simply standing in the middle of the bright room. There was a look on his face that seemed oddly place. Not quite irritation, more like frustration, but was that…a hint of terror? It looked like something had gone terribly wrong.

"Have you seen anybody in here?" he demanded, suddenly whirling about to face her. "Alive?" he added hastily.

"Only the family out there," Molly answered, stumbling over her words in her rush to answer. "Is something going on?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He stared, hard, at Molly, though he was not truly seeing her. She fidgeted and glanced at her feet before looking up again.

"I should probably, um, go talk with that family," she finally said.

When Sherlock still did not respond, Molly straightened up and turned to leave.

"Show me," he called to the pathologist. Turning back, she saw that Sherlock had one foot extended in front of the other. He was desperate, she noted.

"Show you. . what, sorry?" she repeated.

"All the dead bodies you've received today," Sherlock said, stepping back. "Show me."

Bewildered, but not wishing to disappoint, Molly walked past the tall man, and approached the first table. Drawing the sheet back revealed a young woman, in her mid-twenties, lying lifeless on the table, her skin a sickly grey color.

"Not her." Molly was about ask what Sherlock meant, but he was not looking at her anymore. Placing the sheet over the face again, the woman moved around the dead girl to the only other occupied table. Molly had not viewed this body herself; Caroline had come in earlier that morning, autopsied the body, and cleared it through and through. They had just been putting off taking it away.

"I don't know what you're looking for, Sherlock," Molly began, but again, she was interrupted by an impatient sound.

"Just show me," he commanded, some venom making its way into his words.

Now feeling it better to keep her mouth shut, Molly pulled back the sheet.

With a short cry of shock and horror, the pathologist leaped back, dropping the sheet. However, the consulting detective across from her stepped closer, moving the sheet back further, ignoring the terrified squeaks escaping Molly's mouth. He looked up and down the table then, without a word, maneuvered around the table and swept from the room. He pulled out his phone as he went, barely needing to see where he was going.

Don't touch him. I'm on my way. –SH

Lying on the steel table back in the morgue was a dead, rotting pig carcass. Its eyes had sunk back in its skull, and its mouth was open to reveal all the teeth gone. The stomach had a huge gash in it. Carved into the flesh was a crude smiley face, along with the words, "TICK, TOCK."

Too late. Oopsie. -JM


End file.
